


Fight of the Elites

by Be Radioactive (RainbowyMess)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 24 POVS, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Careers (Hunger Games), Dark, Drug Use, Multi, Quarter Quell (Hunger Games), Tears, You've been warned, alliances and backstabbing and all that good stuff, being a tribute is not fun, lots of violence guys it's the hg, mayhaps some romance who knows, not based on the movies, siblings reaped together, some political scheming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowyMess/pseuds/Be%20Radioactive
Summary: The Mockingjay's rebellion failed, and a hundred and twenty-five years later, Panem is celebrating its eighth Quarter Quell. "The games have begun... and when it's life or death, anything goes." Happy Hunger games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 3





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, welcome~  
> I fell back into a hunger games haze recently and read the books from start to finish once more. I used to write Hunger Games fics in french a good... oh, 8 years ago?? But as I've been writing in english the last few years, I thought I would try my hand at publishing a fic here. The story happens 125 years in Panem's future, and goes from the idea that Katniss' rebellion actually failed and the Hunger Games kept going strong.  
> This will be told in the 24 POVS of the tributes, all original characters, and follow them through the arena up until that one final survivor and victor of the games. So please bear with me, I know it will be confusing to recognise all the tributes at first. But fret not, there is plenty happening before the arena that each death WILL be impactful *cue evil laughter*  
> I've taken some liberties with the districts, since a 125 years is a long time and things are bound to change quite a bit.  
> So far, I have 19 chapters pre-written. Since I like having a bit of leeway, I should be posting a chapter once every 4-5 days, I believe. But who knows. *shrug*  
> Please, if you are easily triggered, do NOT read this fic.  
> I am un-betaed, please forgive the mistakes, I'm doing my best I swear.  
> Enjoy!

**.**

**FIGHT OF THE ELITES**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_War, terrible war,_

_Widows, orphans, a motherless child,_

_This was the uprising that rocked our land,_

_Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed, loved and protected them,_

_Brother turned on brother until nothing remained._

_And then came the peace, hard fought, sorely won,_

_The people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born._

_But freedom has a cost,_

_When the traitor was defeated,_

_We swore as a nation that we would never know this treason again,_

_And so it was decreed that each year,_

_The various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute,_

_One young man and woman to fight to the death,_

_In a pageant of honor, courage and sacrifice,_

_The lone victor, bathed in riches,_

_Would serve as a reminder of our generosity and forgiveness._

_This is how we remember our past,_

This _is how we safeguard our future._

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Kyr Warland, 19 years old, Head Gamemaker**

“Do you know what my earliest memory is?”

The man shakes his head, eyes fixed attentively on me. Only the slight tremor of his index betrays his excitement. A bitter smile escapes me and I draw my knees back, hugging them against my chest and burrowing myself further in the armchair. I can still see it in my mind as if it happened yesterday. A memory so deeply ingrained I know I could never forget it.

“I was three. I had a nightmare, and like any child my age, I went to find my parents, hoping for some comfort. I went through the corridors silently, holding my blanket as though it could protect me from the monsters in the dark. My heart was still racing, tears tracking down my cheeks. There was no sound coming from the house, I thought everyone fast asleep. Except… there was a light, coming through a barely open room. My father’s studio. And through the cracks, I saw it. My father slowly falling from his chair, pearls of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, until he disappeared behind the desk, invisible to my eyes. And in front of him, calmly seated and smiling, my mother.”

The man’s eyes widen and tremor of his finger suddenly stops.

“Of course,” I continue coolly, “you know this conversation cannot be repeated to anyone, anywhere. If my mother came to learn that her most well-guarded secret wasn’t actually so secret anymore…”

He nods, abrupt and shaken, then shakes his head and sits back a little straighter. I can see him struggling to regain his professionalism and barely manage to hide a mocking smile at his antics. With a small cough, he gestures for me to continue.

“Three weeks later, as you know, she won the elections and became Panem’s new president. My father’s death became the instrument of her victory. Even now, I still don’t know if he took the poison voluntarily or if his last breaths were filled with the realisation that the love of his life had betrayed him.”

I lick my lips and rest my chin on my knees, pensive.

“For the devolving, more and more debauched Capitol, my mother’s arrival to power was the perfect remedy. This headstrong widow, now a single mother of three who chooses to raise them without the help of Avoxes… This image of a saint she built let her govern with an iron fist, bringing us back to the _right_ way. A little more and we would have ended up with a third rebellion, after a hundred and twenty-five years of hard-earned peace. But this, you already know. I can’t even track the number of biographies written about her in sixteen years of reign.”

He nods again slowly, as if hypnotised by my words.

“All this to say, my feelings about my mother have always been mixed. My admiration for her political accomplishments, for her composure and her ability to handle any situation with finesse has always battled with my hate for her acts against my family, now broken beyond repair although seemingly perfect to any outsiders.”

“Why speak of your mother today?” The older man finally enquires. “You have always refused to mention her in past sessions.”

“Something happened, five days ago.”

“Yes?” He smiles, gesturing encouragingly for me to continue when I pause, seemingly hesitant.

“She saw a sketch I made of an arena by mistake. Or maybe she searched for it, who knows. There’s not much I can hide from her.” I stop, chuckling, and raise my eyes, fixing them on the man. “I was always her favorite, did you know? That’s why my siblings hate me. No matter what they do, and believe me, they indulge in all sorts of ridiculous behaviors, she never gives them an ounce of consideration. And yet, with me… She _needs_ to know all about me, at all times.”

“And, the sketch…?”

“When she saw it, she decided to make me the next Head Gamemaker for this year’s Quarter Quell. Said it had the potential to make this year’s Hunger Games the best Panem has ever seen.”

He clasps his hands over his knees nervously, trying to hide his surprise.

“I see. And how did this make you feel?”

“I suppose I should take this as an honor. Head Gamemaker at nineteen, and for the eighth Quarter Quell at that. It certainly is impressive, and there are many vying for the title.”

“But not you?”

“Oh, I’ve always dreamed of being Head Gamemaker. Or at the very least, a Gamemaker. But wanting it and actually being one are two very different things,” I add with a chuckle. “And that my mother is the one pushing me to it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why is that?”

“I believe this is a test. She wants to know if I have what it takes to succeed her.”

“Succeed her?”

“As the next president of Panem, of course.”

He swallows a little loudly, hands clenching briefly over his knees.

“Having his son be the Head Gamemaker is great publicity, no doubt,” I keep explaining, relishing in all his poorly contained reactions. “But she’s not doing this while I’m so young for no reason. This way, she can mould me the way she wants while showing me the intricate ropes of politics. And the Head Gamemaker’s fate, should the games not be satisfactory to the public, is about the worst-kept secret there is in the Capitol. If I prove to be of lower caliber than she desires, or if she finds any clues that I might not be as loyal as I appear, she will have the perfect excuse to get rid of me. Because, you see, I am the only dangerous one. My siblings, they don’t have what it takes. No charisma, no wits, no cunning. But me, on the other hand…” I smile, a little proud, a little sad.

“Are you… afraid? Is this why you feel the need to tell me about this?” He asks after a long silence.

I shrug, nibbling on my lower lip. “Playing the political game, that’s easy. Being Head Gamemaker, well, it’s certainly exciting if nothing else. But deceiving my mother… Yes, I suppose it does cause me some slight worrying. I do wish I’d had a few more years to prepare myself.”

“I… see. So you think you won’t have any problem with your new title.”

I give him a lopsided grin, resting my chin on my knees once more. “The theme for this Quarter Quell was a great inspiration,” I say with a dreamy sign, remembering with precision the exact moment my mother unfolded the yellowed paper.

Very simple, the special rule of these Games promises a phenomenal spectacle. I recite it to myself once more, never getting tired of it. _At the two hundredth Hunger Games, to remind the rebels that thinking themselves the best does not insure victory, the eligible male and female tributes will be composed of their most talented members._ A Hunger Game where, possibly, all the tributes would have a chance to win, career or not? How exciting!

“Tonight, I am meeting the Gamemakers that will be composing my team to figure out how the tribute should be chosen. What criteria to use, how to test them… I already have several ideas, of course. Thinking about this kept me up a whole night after the announcement of the special rule…” I chuckle. “Even though I had no clue I would end up in charge of it.”

“Oh?”

I rub my hands together, eager to be sharing my plan. “I will find twelve traits, or characteristics, be it physical, mental, or other, that would serve a tribute the best in the arena. Once a month until the reapings, the eligible children will participate in a series of tests to evaluate those… abilities, let’s say. Then, separating boys and girls’ results, we will average the results. The district and gender with the highest average in one ability will give us that group’s tribute who will have had the highest score in that category.”

I stop, taking a breath, and see the man’s stare glazed over in confusion. “Well. We can skip all the boring details.”

He nods with an uncertain smile. After a few seconds of silence, he frowns and tilts his head to the side. “But, if the evaluations are once a month, isn’t there a risk of cheating? After the first test, the children will know how to prepare for them. If they don’t want to be tributes, they could aim to have low scores on purpose, or the opposite for the careers.”

“This is why they will be drugged,” I answer proudly. “They won’t remember a thing of the tests, and will not be able to lie or hide their abilities and innate talents. I’ve already contact a man specialised in this field, and he should have a prototype ready shortly.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” he exhales, impressed.

I shrug with a grin. “I am my mother’s son,” I say, flippant.

I will prove it. These games will be the instrument of her demise, just like my father’s death was the instrument of her victory. After all, she is the one who taught me that we cannot trust anyone, and even less our own family.

I smile, gesturing for the man to take another sip of his coffee. In one hour at most, the poison will have spread in his system and he will be dead. I won’t have any exploitable weaknesses left. And this game of cat and mouse between my mother and I will finally begin. This fight of the elites will create the most spectacular Hunger Games ever witnessed; I will make sure of it.


	2. District One Reaping

**FIGHT OF THE ELITES**

**.**

**.**

_DISTRICT ONE REAPING_

**.**

**.**

**Weave Blackheat, 18 years old, District 1**

“You couldn’t just win dad, right? Of course not, you _had_ to make things difficult for everyone. You _had_ to ruin my life by being incompetent. That’s the way it goes, isn’t?”

I sigh dramatically and crouch in front of the grave. A few stray flowers still litter around and I kick them away with a disgusted downturn of my mouth. “Don’t worry, you know I’m kidding. It’s finally my last year. Let’s hope I’m mediocre enough to not be picked, yeah? But since I’m your daughter, I’m sure it will be fine. Even though mom would kill me if she heard that. I swear, if I wasn’t the potential successor, she would have murdered me a long time ago. I bet she dreams about it at night, ha!”

Rubbing my hands together, I notice an old man kneeling close-by and stick out my tongue when our eyes meet. He looks away, cheeks wet from tears, but a tiny smile graces his lips. The cemetery is always popular on reaping day. I suppose to most families who lost someone to the Games, reaping day is considered the execution date, no matter how late in the game the tribute may have died. And District One hasn’t been very lucky the last few decades. It’s been a good ten years since our last winner, and before that, another few years had gone by unsuccessfully.

Poor us, am I right?

But it’s not such a bad thing, really. For me, anyway. Our people are getting unhappy with the Capitol and its favoritism with District Two, even though it isn’t even the district with the most victors of the Games. It makes some jealous around here. And because we’re not getting as many victories, many neighborhoods have gotten noticeably impoverished. Which, of course, makes my grandda overjoyed. More power and money to our family. After all, black markets thrive on despair.

“Weave!” a voice whispers in my back.

I roll my eyes and get back up, dusting off my hands. “What, Ceran? What could my _dear_ fiancé possibly want with me on this sunny day?”

“You know, I’m aware you don’t like me. It’s mutual, by the way, so there’s no need to add to it every chance you get,” he answers, rolling his eyes in turn.

“But I wouldn’t want you to get any doubts! What a horrible tragedy that would be!” I finally turn around, hand on my heart and blinking exaggeratedly. He gives me a deadpan look, crossing his arms. At least, he’s good-looking, in a rugged sort of way. I could always put a gag on him in bed. Well, assuming I’ll even follow my grandda’s supreme orders, which… I’d rather marry a Peacekeeper than listen to that old fart.

“Hu-huh. You sure aren’t a little over-dramatic there or anything,” Ceran says flatly.

“Not at all.”

He sighs and finally cuts to the chase. “Timo wants to see you.”

“Wonderful! Tell him I’m busy not seeing him!”

I send him kiss with the tip of my fingers and speed away. Walking by the old man from earlier, I lean down to give him a tissue. He smiles gratefully and wipes his eyes before turning back to the grave. I continue on my merry way, a grin gracing my lips as I slip his wallet in my vest’s pocket.

“Weave!”

Ceran catches up to me as I pass through the cemetery’s entrance, and his tattooed hand grabs my wrist gently. “You can’t keep disobeying him like this, you know what will happen,” he warns, eyes pleading with me. “You don’t want to be an outsider. You _know_ you need our family to survive.”

I snatch my arm back with a glare, almost daring him to stop me. He doesn’t, and I’m finally free to walk away. I burrow myself in the shopping district until I’m sure he can’t find me anymore. The street vendors who spot me make sure to greet me politely, as they’ve been instructed. After all, a Blackheat needs to be respected, in District One. I kick a rock away, disgusted.

What I wouldn’t give to have been born an outsider. To have nothing to do with my family. But once a Blackheat, always a Blackheat. Unless you get blacklisted, in which case you can be certain to live miserably, barely able to feed yourself, for the rest of your sad, pathetic life.

I steal a few more wallets; it’s always good practice, and use the money to buy a handful of small fruits. Once home, I drop them on the dining table and unceremoniously sit down.

“Ready for the reaping?” My mom appears in the entrance, making me jump. She takes a seat in front of me and frowns when she notices my clothes.

“What, don’t you notice the hours I put in this outfit? I made myself all pretty like a doll!”

She sigh. “Thank the lords you’re naturally pretty. Even in overalls, you give a good impression. If only you could volunteer this year… It’s your last year, after all. Maybe Timo could make an exception for you, if you’re not picked…”

“Stop. I wouldn’t volunteer even if I could. There’s no way I’m dying a martyr like dad.” I cross my arms before I can even register the action and shrink down a little more in my chair. We’ve had this conversation so many times before, and it never goes well.

“Don’t be such a child, Weave. You’ve prepared your whole life for this. You have to take over the clan, there’s no one else.”

“It’s exactly because of this barbaric tradition that there’s no one else but me left! If the potential leaders of the clan didn’t need to win the Games to be allowed to take over, _maybe_ they would all stop _dying_ and Timo could finally retire. Ever thought of that? I mean, how do you think these things were done before the Games existed, huh?”

“Don’t you talk this way about the clan, Weave! How could you badmouth our sacred rules so easily?”

“You know, mom, you should be praying I don’t get picked at the reaping, and that I don’t end up the victor. Because if I take over the clan, the rules will change, and there’s won’t be anyone to stop me.”

She almost gets up, halfway over the table and hands almost turning white against the wood, before leaning back again, looking defeated. She looks so tired I almost feel bad. Almost.

“You’re still so young, you can’t possibly understand. The rules exist for a reason. We are living in such a precarious balance. The Blackheat are needed for the survival of the district, and we all know it. But we have many enemies who’d like to take our spot. And who knows how they would exploit our people? What horrors they could wreck on our home?”

“Yeah, right. Or maybe, just maybe, they’d actually change things for the better. Ever think of that? Maybe _we’re_ the bad guys here, but everyone’s too afraid of us to say it to our face. You know what I think? I think Timo, and you, and anyone else following him blindly, you’re all just too afraid of change. And that maybe our ancestors were wrong, and we’ve been following these stupid traditions all these years for _nothing_.”

She runs a hand over her face tiredly. “There’s no talking to you, is there. But one day, you’ll understand. Until then… It’s time for the reaping. Take a fruit, for good luck, and let’s get going.”

I take a bow, mocking. I don’t think we have the same definition of what the good luck is, in this situation.

.

.

The atmosphere is strangely tense, for a reaping day. Parents hold their kids a little tighter, the Peacekeepers are somber and strained, ready to react to anything. The fact is, this year, anyone could be tribute. Our district hasn’t had to worry about their kids for hundreds of years, ever since the career tributes became a thing. No one can volunteer, no one unwilling can be saved, and no one knows how the tributes are chosen for these Games.

I shudder just thinking of the evaluations. The first of every month, my memory has been completely wiped. Twelve days in this past year lost forever. I don’t know what they did to me, and even though, there was clearly no lasting effects on my body, it still scares me. The Capitol has some of the most twisted minds of Panem, and especially the Gamemakers. You’ve got to be a little fucked in the head for that job, let’s face it. Even though I try not to think about it, I can’t help but imagine some of the terrifying shit that could have been done to me, all in the name of finding the “best” tributes.

And I know I’m not the only one, if the wild rumors circulating in the district are any indication.

No matter. I make sure to keep a nonchalant look, waving to my mom as I get in line for registration. She doesn’t hug me, but that’s fine. Showing love and affection, that’s never been us. A Blackheat can’t show any weaknesses.

I reach the entrance line and slip my fingers in the blood sampler under the careful eyes of a Peacekeeper. It lights up green and she nods, asking for my ID card next, which I give her. She gestures towards the eighteen years old section, where most of my peers are already assembled. I can feel their stares weighing on me. They all know I would have been a volunteer if I could have. And I wouldn’t have had any competition. We don’t have nearly as many careers as we used to. It’s a costly choice, and the less victors we get, the less enthusiasm there is to give up everything to train for the Games.

My family’s tradition is well known. After all, we’ve lost all my uncles, aunts and cousins to it. Oh, of course, there’s still the twice-removed cousins left, kids of my grandda’s siblings. But I’m the last direct descendants of our line. And blood is everything in the Blackheat family. That’s why we marry early and push out babies like it’s a damn factory. It’s a wonder Timo hasn’t managed to marry me to Ceran before my sixteenth birthday.

Good for me they’ll never know I had no intention of volunteering, this way they can’t hate me if I’m not picked, and they won’t hold me responsible if their kid ends up dying in the arena.

“The reaping will begin shortly. Please take a seat, for those who can, and join up your peers in your assigned sections, if you are eligible.” Unlike most Capitol escorts, ours seems reserved, almost placid. He nods his thanks and the crowd quiets down progressively.

The Horn of Plenty starts blasting through the speakers scattered all around us, and the usual Hunger Games propaganda plays on the wide screen mounted to the platform. The kids around me are watching attentively, some of them even repeating word for word under their breath. This fanatical side of my district sickens me. And yet. I heard it was much worse, fifty years ago. I can’t even imagine. We were the Capitol’s lapdogs, wagging our tails for anything. Just like District Two.

The recording ends and I cross my arms, feeling the tension building up in my limbs. Even though I’m not volunteering… I’m still a career. The criteria to choose a tribute may be different this year, but I imagine the odds are most likely playing against me. But I won’t be picked. I _won’t_.

“Welcome, District One, to this eighth Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games! And what a beautiful day for such an occasion, is it not?” The escort smiles, gesturing towards the blue sky and the shining sun. He looks to be in his thirties. I don’t remember seeing him last year, and I wonder how he ended up getting our district assigned so young. Usually the younger ones end up working for the poorer districts.

“I am your escort for these Games, Deshawn Huneycutt, and I wish us all happy Hunger Games! May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.”

He stops, giving us time to applaud and whistle and whatever else my people lower themselves to for the Capitol. Even though the enthusiasm isn’t quite what it usually is on reaping day, I imagine it’s thrice what it would be in District Eight right now.

“Good, good. Let’s move on to what we’ve all been waiting for, shall we? Are you ready?”

The answering yes is deafening, making me wince. Maybe if I hadn’t watched half my family get brutally murdered and mutilated in the arena, I would be more enthusiastic about it. Who knows.

“I have in my hands two envelopes containing the names of our lucky tributes,” Huneycutt smiles, shaking the tin papers in the air under the avid attention of the crowd. “Ladies first, as usual.”

He smiles, brilliant and excited, and delicately opens the dark purple envelope, taking a tiny piece of paper of the same color. I roll on the balls of me feet nervously, my arms still tightly holding my sides. It’s the moment of truth.

“And the lucky girl, the elite, the cream of the cream from District One is none other than… Weave Blackheat! Come join us on stage, dear!”

Time stops for a few seconds, but the years of training kick in and I travel through the gathering of girls on autopilot. I can see in my periphery the kids pointing at me, some even try to touch me, already treating me like a celebrity. Hands push me in the back, elbows knock me everywhere, fingers reaching at my clothes, my hair, and whispers follow my every steps. I push them away with a snarl, finally reaching a Peacekeeper. He checks my ID quickly and waves me through.

I know the cameras are on me and without any conscious effort, I hold myself tall, head held high and features impassive. I am a Blackheat, the clan’s successor, Timo Blackheat’s granddaughter. This is not the time to panic.

Once on the platform, my eyes meet my grandda’s before I turn towards the crowd. He offers a nod that I ignore with gritted teeth. It’s all working out exactly the way he wanted it to.

Now, I need to win the Hunger Games or… die.

And there is no way I am dying in these stupid Games like my dad. I will survive, no matter what. And they will regret ever wanting me as a successor. They brought this on themselves, really. Let the Games begin.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Ash Allardyce, 15 years old, District 1**

A hand clamps down on my shoulder without warning and I react instinctively, grabbing it and twisting it behind the moron’s back. A squeak of pain escapes him before I release him, stepping back with a glare. He must be new here. The others know better than to sneak up on me. I cross my arms, looking everywhere but at him, as he massages his wrist.

“What’s your problem, man, I didn’t do anything!”

I raise my eyebrows but ignore his question. “What d’you want?”

He squirms at my harsh tone with a nervous smile. I squint, shoulders hunching on themselves a little more. He looks my age, maybe a little younger, but he surpasses me by a good head. It pisses me off. Slate was big when he was thirteen. I’m fifteen and still barely growing.

“I saw you training. I just wanted to suggest we spare for a bit, looks like you could show me a few new tricks…”

“I don’t like trainin’ with others so fuck off,” I bite out, starting to turn back to the combat simulation.

“Look, Essen told me to come see you, that you could use some real combat experience. S’not like I want to ok, I’m new here, I gotta do what I’m told if I wanna make it to the next evaluations.”

I groan, unhappy, but nod in agreement. Essen is an asshole who likes to torture us, bring us to our limits, physical as much as mental, but he knows what he’s doing. If he gives you an advice, you better listen to it. This guy may be bigger than me, but I know how to fight. I just need to be faster and hit where it hurts. Essen underestimates me.

We stand in front of each other on a training mat. I wring out the creaks in my neck, sniffling aggressively. He smiles and takes a step closer. My body tenses up but I force my breaths out and relax my muscles. I need to be loose and ready to react or strike.

He jumps towards me, hoping to take me by surprise, but clenching his fists a millisecond before he moves betrays him. I sidestep him easily and position a foot between his legs to disrupt his equilibrium. He doesn’t fall, but I manage to shake him enough to give a merciless blow to his upper back with my elbow.

He crashes to the floor with a muted sound but rolls around quickly to face me. Too little too late. If I had been armed, he would be dead. Fool. I let him get back on his feet and he uses the momentum to charge forward again. The exact same sequence of events repeats itself and I sigh, bored.

“You’re weak, _man_ ,” I mock, imitating him. “Give it up and go run to yer mommy.”

“Hey, wait!”

I turn around, ready to leave, when he grabs me by the front of my shirt. I take hold of his wrists and swing him over my back. He lands heavily, breath cut short. I inhale deeply and hurry to bring my tee back down to cover myself, but too late. He saw the scars.

“What the fuck is that?! What kind of crazy training did you get up to, to get those…?”

“Shut yer trap, asshole. This is none of yer fuckin’ business, got it?”

I kick him once for good measure before leaving, shoulders hunched over and breath a little too quick.

**.**

**.**

Just as I’m done changing, my mom barges in with a large smile. “Look how handsome you are,” she simpers, fussing with the sleeves so they fall properly over my shoulders. “Are you ready for reaping day?”

I shrug, noncommittal. As if we can ever be _ready_ for it. Except when we’re volunteers, I guess, but even then. Which isn’t gonna happen for me, whether she wants me to or not. Not gonna happen this year, for one. I’m only doing the career training because there’s nothing else to do and it keeps her mostly happy. Plus, it’s a great way to blow off steam.

Not liking my response, she frowns and I tense up, ready for anything. But she simply sighs before clapping her hands with a happy sigh. “I’ll let you finish up. You need to be the most handsome boy today! Who knows, maybe your father will see you on the screen. Oh, that would make him _so_ happy, Ash, I just know it.”

And my brother, I add silently. She only ever mentions him when she’s having one of her fits. I understand though, I do. She might never see him again. This year was his last chance to volunteer for the Games, and it’s been stripped away from him, and the rest of our family. He promised me he’d win so he could request for us to be reunited, but promises are useless under the crushing power of the Capitol, ain’t they.

I guess I could always do it in his stead when I’m eighteen. Mom would be ecstatic. But I don’t really wanna be in the Games, if I’m being honest. I got a few years to think it over, either way.

When I join my mother in the kitchen in my only pair of pants that isn’t full of holes and a clean blue shirt, my wild, dirt-blond hair somewhat tamed and my face clear of dirt, she embraces me tightly, pushing back a sob. I stay motionless, letting her hug me without returning the embrace. I’m more scared of her when she’s in a good state, I just never know what to expect from her mood swings.

“You look so much like him, hon, you have no idea. If only he could see you… He wanted to take you too, did you know? But I told him, not my Ash. You’re most like him, and if I lost you… I wouldn’t have anything left of him, now would I?”

I nod silently, fists clenched. This type of speech never ends well for me.

“You better never leave me, you hear me? I gave birth to you, you’re mine. _Only_ mine, my boy… only… mine…” She suddenly starts crying, big, heaving sobs, as her fingernails dig into my shoulder blades mercilessly. I barely react, used to it. I haven’t felt pain in a long time.

After what seems like an eternity, she finally cools down and releases me. She takes a few seconds to wipes her tears and fluffs her hair back to an acceptable appearance. I don’t move from my spot, still silent and submissive. She sniffles and takes a deep breath, her eyes finally reaching mine. We stare at each other, both expressionless. Then she frowns and her lips turn down in a disappointed glower. She throws her arm back and I don’t even try to avoid her when she slaps my cheek with her whole strength, simply back away by one step as I absorb the blow.

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s not my fault if I’m like this! It’s _you_ , it’s because you look like him so much! Any other woman would be like this. I lost the _love of my life_ because of you and your brother! If you hadn’t opened your big traps to your friends, we would still be together!”

I nod slowly, feeling the overbearing heat on my cheek and not daring to touch it.

“ _It’s not my fault!_ ” she wails again, hysterical.

Here we go again. At least, I know this dance well.

**.**

**.**

“…Weave Blackheat! Come join us on stage, dear!”

I blink, surprised. I know that name. She’s from the Blackheat clan, isn’t she? The family that controls the black markets. I’ve seen her train at our center a few times. She’s not really a member of it, but Essen told me her grandfather sent her to different instructors, to polish up her training or something.

She walks up the platform, expressionless, in brown overalls, a yellowed sweater and her long, multi-colored hair made up in a braid. She wasn’t bad, at the center. But she wasn’t the best, either. That’s what Essen told me, anyway.

I really wonder what the criteria are for the chosen tributes. I shake my head. Who cares. Up on the platform, the escort shakes the girl’s hand, a warm smile on his lips. I bite my nails nervously. It’s the boys’ turn. I’m not afraid, I’m not, but… I’d rather not be chosen.

Deshawn Huneycutt grabs the dark blue envelope and carefully opens it. I grit my teeth, tasting blood from my finger before I snatch my hand down forcefully. He unfolds the piece of paper, giving a running commentary that I barely listen to.

I won’t be me, it won’t…

“And the male tribute is… drumrolls please… Ash Allardyce!”

That’s… me.

Because of course it is.

I push the kids standing in my way, shoulders up and eyes stuck to the floor. The Peacekeeper lets me through after checking my ID and I go up the very short flight of stairs. I look from left to right, not knowing where to settle my gaze.

“Ash Allardyce, what a great name for a victor, isn’t?” The escort declares, trying to grabs my hand so he can shake it. I avoid him, hiding my hands behind my back, and he laughs awkwardly before introducing me to the assembly and the cameras one more time. I stop myself from biting my fingernails again. I know my neck and ears must be bright red. I hate being the center of attention.

I’m then asked to shake hands with the other tribute. The escort almost forces me to face the girl. My eyes meet hers, but we both look away quickly. She’s holding her hand out, still expressionless and standing rigidly. I grab it as briefly as humanly possible.

I feel like I’m dreaming. Am I really going to be in the Hunger Games? Did this… really happen?

My mom must be so happy. I’m glad I can’t see her through the crowd right now. For the first time in my life, I feel the urge to hit her.

**.**

**.**

The room they stick me in for the goodbyes is plusher then I envisioned. As I look through the window, munching on an apple, I can see the Capitol’s journalists amassed at the entrance, trying to grab hold of the tributes’ families or friends for interviews. I don’t see my mom yet, but I’m sure she’s on her way. Essen just left after dropping off the career’s dog tags for my district token. The only way I could make it into the career’s alliance. If there are even any careers for these Games. Other than him or my mom, there won’t be anyone else saying goodbye to me.

She finally barges in, engulfing me in her arms before I can even blink. Her breath stinks of alcohol, as it usually does. She lands two wet kisses on my cheeks, wiping a few stray tears with a beaming smile.

“I can’t believe it! You really made it! But of course you did, why am I even surprised. You’re your father’s son, after all. Oh, how wonderful is this! When you’ll have won the Games, they are bound to let us reunite, aren’t they? Just a few short weeks and I will finally see your father again!”

She keeps crying as she speaks, patting me all over and hugging me intermittently. “I’m so proud of you, hon. Your coach says you show great potential, that it wouldn’t surprise him if you actually won. I did good, sending you to the academy, didn’t I? Sure, it was a little expensive, but well worth it, after all! Oh, your dad must be so happy, so proud like me! Do you think he already saw the reaping?”

She keeps babbling away and I listen patiently. “Make us proud, baby. Don’t act rash. You won’t disappoint me, right? I know you won’t.”

I nod, again and again. She smiles and hugs me once more.

“Good. Come back to me. And bring me back my husband. I love you, son.”

I love her too, no matter the past few years. She’s my mother, I have to. I’m the only one she has. I’ll survive, and reunite our family. And maybe… maybe she’ll finally be happy. Maybe she’ll go back to her old self and forgive me. I hadn’t planned on volunteering, but now that this happened… I’m ready. Whatever they throw at me, I can handle it.

“We’ll see each other soon mom, I swear.”

“I know, hon. Such a handsome boy… I’ve always believed in you. I know I can count on you.”

She caresses my cheek softly, the very same one she struck just a few hours ago, and smiles, tender and warm. I force a half-smile in return. My poor mother. I can’t leave her like this. I can’t die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next reaping should be in 2-3 days. I just wanted to at least post the first reaping, get the story started. Hope you found them interesting!


	3. District Two Reaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for Slate's language in advance. Also, just in case anyone notices, yes Ash and Slate are inspired by Daryl and Merle from Walking Dead. Listen... I needed that bond in my fic, I just find their relationship too interesting and wanted a way to explore it, even though it's not actually them because believe it or not, this isn't a TWD fic lmao  
> Next reaping will be posted in 2-3 days! Still unbeta'ed here so forgive the dumb mistakes.

**FIGHT OF THE ELITES**

**.**

**.**

_DISTRICT TWO REAPING_

**.**

**.**

**Solari Scrymgeour, 14 years old, District 2**

Up on my tiptoes, I manage to grab the small mirror from the hallway and bring it back to my room. Leaning it against the wall, I then go fetch the basin already filled with lukewarm water and delicately leave it at my feet. Kneeling and taking a deep breath, I plunge my head in, forehead to the bottom. I stay in as long as I can. It is always a good training for the Games.

Resurfacing, barely panting, I take the rough piece of soap and rub my head, making sure to lather it generously. I bring the razor to my scalp with methodical gestures and get rid of the slight fuzz that managed to grow in only one day and night.

I take deep breaths as I work, getting rid of all unnecessary thoughts. This is the part of my morning routine I like most. Alone, focused on my task, I feel more in control than any other moment. Mother says this is my cleansing ritual. Done with the front, I hold my right ear firmly away so I can reach behind, careful not to cut myself. Then I do the same with my left side. Only the back is left. I make sure to take my time. This is where I sometimes hurt myself.

I finish up efficiently, used to it, still with even breaths and a clear mind. I rinse my head in the now cold water. My scalp is a little tight and itchy, but it is a familiar and almost reassuring discomfort. As though it keeps me in the moment, firmly anchored in my body.

I shake my head, covering the floor with a spray of droplets before reaching for the towel to dry it fully. I then slip in a simple white long-sleeve and a pair of soft gray pants. Unconsciously, I reach for my dog tags, making sure they rest against my chest, cold metal against cold skin.

I am as ready as I can be.

My parents are already waiting for me at the kitchen table. I slide in the seat to the left with a respectful nod.

“Did you sleep well, Solari?” father asks as he takes a sip of his tea.

I nod and he does the same, content with my answer.

“Not too worried for the reaping, I hope? We all know you are the best candidate from your academy, but who knows how the tributes are chosen this year. Your father and I, we were worried that you would take it negatively if you are not picked.”

“I know, mother,” I say coolly. “I am not worried. If this does not work out, I still have four more chances to volunteer. Besides, we had planned for me to go when I was sixteen.”

“Of course, of course,” she smiles. “But wouldn’t it be ideal if you participated in this Quarter Quell? The daughter of two victors, winning the two-hundredth Hunger Games… This is giving me shivers, dear.”

I nod again, fully agreeing with her. It _would_ be perfect. And no matter what I tell them, I have no doubt I will be chosen. It is in my blood. I am destined to be a victor.

“Just in case, let’s practice one more time, shall we?” Mother continues in an almost excited tone. “When the escort says your name… love, who was she? I forget.”

“Sopheve Baird,” Father offers quietly.

“But of course, how silly of me! I don’t know why I keep forgetting the poor woman’s name! We’ve even had her over for tea twice now. What a charming young woman.”

“Indeed, quite lovely,” he agrees distractedly, eyes on his tablet, probably reading the latest news from the Capitol.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes,” she turns back to me with a smile. “When Sopheve calls your name as tribute, what do you do?”

“I get to the podium calmly. Do not smile too much, it is better to seem serious. Stare at the other tribute directly when shaking hands. And then look at the cameras. Sponsors care about the tribute’s first appearance; I have to appeal to them. Be polite and respectful with the escort and the mentor. It’s better to have them on my side.”

“Good, good. And the other tributes?”

“Don’t make enemies if possible. Make sure the other careers have a sufficient level for an alliance, otherwise it’s better to do the Games on my own,” I recite dutifully.

“And the most crucial?”

“Don’t trust _anyone_. I can only count on myself.”

“Wonderful!” Mother cheers, clapping her hands. “Oh, how proud I am of you, Solari! We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect daughter. Right, Keanz?”

“Indeed, quite perfect,” Father answers, this time actually gazing at me with warmth as he says it.

I nod my head, happy of their approval. As long as they are happy, so am I. I reach for a piece of bread but catch a suspicious glint from my periphery and drop to the ground immediately. And good thing I did, because a knife lands right where my neck was a second ago.

My mother claps again with a satisfied smile. I retaliate right way, trying to stab her with my fork. She barely dodges with a delighted chuckle. “Oh, Keanz, she is perfect. Absolutely perfect!”

“Indeed, dear, indeed.” He is almost smiling, lips twitching, and it brings me a rush of pride so strong I look down, bashful. I take a seat again and resume my meal. My parents trained me themselves for the Games. And thanks to them, I am unbeatable. I will be picked for the Quarter Quell. No matter the criteria, I am confident I surpass them all.

**.**

**.**

I give one last nod to my parents before turning back to the podium. The mayor is giving his usual speech, reciting the Treaty of Treason. I heard it used to be shorter, before the Mockingjay’s rebellion a hundred and twenty-five years ago. Now it takes forever to reach the end of it. We did not even join that one, District Twelve and Thirteen were destroyed before they could accomplish anything noteworthy, and yet because of that stupid teenage girl, we have to sit through this unending speech every year.

But still. I wait patiently. I have been waiting fourteen years for this moment, I can afford to wait some more. I may not join visibly the fervor of my district, but I am just as excited as the best of them. Our district has been preparing for this day for months. Families have been cooking up a feast to celebrate the tributes in the evening; merchants are getting their Hunger Games paraphernalia ready for sale. The mayor is hosting in his mansion for the first official viewing of the reapings. In the stands behind us, parents and siblings are holding up signs with their kids’ name, hoping they will be reaped. This is the first year in a long time where any career could have a chance at the Games. We usually hold pre-games to determine who gets the honor of volunteering, crashing many a kids dream when they are defeated and their whole life of training has been for nothing. Today, however, anyone could be picked. _Including_ me.

It is finally the escort’s turn. She welcomes us with enthusiasm, wishing us happy Hunger Games. I mouth the famous saying with a slight grin. I can just feel it. I will be reaped. I have to be. There is no one else who compares. I am a legacy, and I will show all of Panem the might of District Two.

“The moment we’ve all been waiting for is finally upon us!” Sopheve Baird declares with an almost maniacal smile. “Who, amongst these courageous youngsters deserves the spots of tributes in this legendary Quarter Quell?”

She opens the dark red envelope under the cheers and hoots of the crowd and takes out the paper containing my name. It has to. My name is there, I just know it. Silence finally washes over us all as she reads the name with a slight tremor in her hands.

“And the female tribute is… Solari Scrymgeour! Well, well, isn’t this our national princess?”

A pleased smile stretches my lips, but I squash it down as soon as it shows. Do not smile too much. Look serious and mature. I step forward with surety, shoulders back and head held high. I must make my parents proud. I reach the podium quickly and walk up to it without hesitation.

I feel in control. Collected, confident. I am exactly where I should be, where I have worked my whole life to be. This was not in vain. It was all worth it. I will be this Quarter Quell’s victor. I deserve it.

Sopheve Baird welcomes me warmly, taking both of my hands in hers, eyes shining. “I should have known the princess would be this year’s tribute!” she comments happily. “Who else but the daughter of two past victors, themselves children of victors, to represent District Two? A round of applause for Solari Scrymgeour, if you will!”

I turn to the cameras, hands on my hips and gaze fierce. I am so happy, I believe I could cry. This is what it feels like, being a tribute. It is even better than I ever imagined.

“Let’s move on to the male tribute, shall we?” The escort finally calms the crowd, holding the second envelope. She opens it quickly, perhaps pressed by time. A bated silence washes over us all as we wait. I cross my arms, curious to know who my district partner will be. A career, or…?

“And I call to the front… Slate Allardyce!”

For a good thirty seconds, nothing happens. No one reacts, no one moves. Then, suddenly, a deep laugh rings out from the eighteen years old section and a boy makes his way to us. He is big; I cannot ignore such a fact. He must have a good two heads over me, and does not lack in muscles, though they are more sinuous than bulging, giving him a wiry yet compact frame. With his ravenous smirk and the short crest of hair on top of his head, he must scare many adversaries.

Not me.

He joins us on the podium, giving a leery once over to our escort. I wrinkle my nose, offended at the blatant lack of respect for Baird, but school myself back to a blank expression. As he turns slightly towards me, I get a glimpse of his dog tags. A career, then. I am not surprised.

“Another round of applause for our imposing male tribute, Slate Allardyce!” The escort squeaks out, visibly nervous of the boy’s sneer as he keeps looking her up and down.

The ceremony ends with a handshake between the boy and me. He sends me a condescending smirk, towering over me, but I stay expressionless. We will see who is laughing when he gets a knife in his guts.

**.**

**.**

“You were so wonderful, darling! So beautiful, so fierce! Oh, your Games will be marvelous; I have no doubt about it!” Mother shakes my hands up and down excitedly, while Father pats my shoulder awkwardly, nodding to Mother’s words.

“How are you feeling, love?”

“Good. Ready,” I answer plainly.

“What do you think of your district partner?”

“He is quite imposing, does not seem too smart, but should fight well since he has the dog tags. He might be easy to manipulate, but I will have to observe more, and wait for him to prove himself during training, before thinking about an alliance. He _would_ make a good distraction at the bloodbath. Other tributes will pay more attention to him than me.”

“Yes, yes, exactly! Oh, so smart and resourceful. Isn’t she just the smartest, Keanz?”

“Indeed, dear,” Father confirms, patting my shoulder one more time.

“Well. We don’t have much time left. Believe in your instincts, Solari, you hear me? Use the other tributes as you need, but don’t let anyone control you or dictate the law. Find competent allies, ones who can hide your weaknesses, not that you have any troublesome ones. Don’t stand out too much in the pre-Games, you don’t want to become a target. Be the smart cookie I know you are and you’ll be just fine!”

“Yes, Mother. Do not worry, you will see me again soon.”

“Of course!”

She gives my hands a squeeze, planting a quick kiss on my forehead. Father gives me one last pat on the shoulder, and the two of them leave the room. I sit on the floor cross-legged, eyes closed and slowly emptying my mind. There is nothing left to do but wait. No one else will come to visit.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Slate Allardyce, 18 years old, District 2**

“What d’you think of her?”

“Not bad. Hips are too big for my taste, but I do love tiny hands, they’re so perfect to…”

I can’t stop the guffaws as Elias mimes the gestures without shame. Another girl walks past us, her short dress barely covering anything. I whistle with an appreciative once over and she turns around, throwing me a disgusted glare. What, if she didn’t want the attention, she should have picked different clothes. I can’t help appreciatin’.

“Want some company, babe? Cool your nerves for the big day?” I ask loudly.

“In your dreams, perv!” she retorts, briskly walking away from our group.

“Damn!” Elias laughs, hitting me in the back, as our others friends whistles and hoot at me.

“She don’t know what she’s missin’,” I grin, moving my hips back and forth.

We keep joking around for a few minutes, passing a joint from one hand to the other. Essen and Tykes rib each other as they usually do, throwing a few gentle punches in. I lean against the stone wall with a satisfied sigh and smoke billows out through my lips.

“I wonder who’s the lucky bastard who’ll be picked,” Elias says, taking a seat on the floor next to me.

“Me, obviously.” I laugh. “I can throw all your sorry asses to the floor with the one hand, ha!”

“Ok, sure, if it’s about physical strength, you’re it. But let’s face it. If it’s about the brains, you’re fucking screwed,” intervenes Tykes with a light kick to my knee.

“Fuck off, I’m still better than you morons!”

“That’s what you always say, and yet… when are ya gonna prove it, big guy, uh?” answers Essen, flinching with an amused snort when I shake off from the wall and take a step towards him.

“Pff,” I sniff, hiding a smile. “If that’s how I’mma be treated, I’m outta here, I got better things to do. Like go say hi to the girlie from ‘fore, if ya know what I mean.”

“Right, man, go get rejected once more, it’s good for the ego they say,” Elias winks. “And you won’t be picked for the Games, loser!” he adds as I walk away, showing him my middle finger over my shoulder.

I _will_ be picked. I have to be. I promised my brother, and if it wasn’t for this stupid Quarter Quell rule, I would have volunteered this year. It’s my last chance to participate, to see him again. I can’t… I deserve to be in the Games, and I _will_ be in it.

“Psst! Slate, here, to your left!” a feminine voice whispers.

I turn my head with a leer. The pretty girl from earlier, Ali-something, gestures for me to join her in the small house with a coy smile. What did I say, huh?

“Need to calm your nerves, after all?”

“Shut up and come in before someone sees you!” she hisses, checking left and right to make sure no one else is around.

“Yes, sir, yes!”

I follow her to her bedroom, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck. Inside, she closes the blinds and finally turns towards me. “I’ve told you not to talk to me in public,” she whines, hands on her hips.

I shrug. What do I fucking care what she wants. The only reason I’ve played along to her with her little hide-and-seek game is because the sex is totally worth it. “I’ll be careful next time, babe… So can we get to it now?”

She sighs and shrugs, unbuttoning her tiny dress. Perfect.

**.**

**.**

“Where were you?” groans my dad as I join him in the living room.

“Not here,” I answer, cheeky. He throws me an annoyed glare, slumped in the couch with a drink in his hand, as usual. His hair looks greasy and untamed, and his clothes have seen better days. Let’s not mention his butt-ugly beard. I sniff, disgusted, and throw myself in the armchair.

“How many days’s it been since you been outside?”

“Not enough of them,” he slurs, taking a big gulp.

“You _do_ remember it’s reaping day though, right?”

“You still volunteering?”

“I can’t, it’s the fuckin’ Quarter Quell.”

“Ha! Good, so you can finally forget that stupid plan of yours and find a _real_ job. Pull your weight around here a little, yeah?”

I glare at him, my fists clenching by themselves. “My _stupid plan_? You mean the one where I wanna meet my brother and mother again? The two people I got separated from because of _you_?”

“I didn’t have a choice! You think I _wanted_ to be brought back here? It was that or be an Avox!”

“You could have left me there!” I roar, getting up and towering over his sorry form. “Or, I don’t know, maybe _take Ash with us_!”

“Your mother didn’t let me, that crazy harpy!” he yells just as loudly, his drink sloshing all over his clothes as he drunkenly gets on his feet. “She begged me, _went on her knees_ , for me to leave him with her. Did you really want me to take both her sons away from her? How can you even _think_ about joining the Hunger Games? What happens if you die, huh? You really think I could survive losing my whole family?!”

“Please, we’ve never been a family! You were just the perv of a Peacekeeper who brought us food and slept with our mother when you felt like it. You never cared about us. Not Ash, not me, and certainly not our mom. So don’t talk to me about _family_. Ash’s my only family, and because of you, I ain’t seeing him ever again. All because you couldn’t keep it in your fuckin’ pants!”

His face red and pulsing, he throws his drink to the wall where it shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces of glass. I barely even react, my blood still pumping and eager for a fight.

“Just because I couldn’t show it don’t mean I didn’t care for you boys! You ungrateful brat, you better learn to respect me, this ain’t no way to speak to me!”

“You’re not a Peacekeeper no more, _dad_ , you don’t make the law anymore! I’ll do what I well damn fuckin’ want, and if I wanna be in the Hunger Games, _I will be_. You’ll see, I’ll be picked, and you won’t do nothin’ to stop me!”

I turn around with a yell, hitting the wall with a dull but resounding thump. A heavy silence blankets the room and I leave without a last glance to the sorry excuse of a human being that is my father. I’ll show him. I’ll keep my promise to Ash.

**.**

**.**

My friends hail me as soon as I reach the eighteen’s section, ribbing me about the girl from earlier and my nonexistent chances of being reaped. I snarl quietly, still tense from the fight with dad. It wasn’t the first time we had this talk, but I was hoping he’d accept my decision at some point. Preferably before I’m dead in the Games. Not that I would ever lose ‘em, but ya never know.

Whatever.

“You okay man? Scared it’s gonna be your name after all?” mocks Essen with a pat to my shoulder.

“You sure it ain’t you who’s scared? Or maybe you gonna miss me?” I shoot back, cheeky.

“Yeah, then I wouldn’t have anyone to insult anymore, a real nightmare!” He places a hand on his heart, bunching up the fabric with a theatrical pout and it’s my turn to hit him on the shoulder. The others join in happily. I heard the wimps from the other districts are usually scared shitless on reaping day. This is District Two, we ain’t no crybabies. Maybe we don’t know how the tributes are chosen this year, but let’s face it. It’s gonna be careers. Who else would have more chances of winning the Hunger Games?

None of us are scared of being in the Games. I might be the only one who’s scared of _not_ being in them, though.

“Your attention, if you please! The reaping will start momentarily,” the escort states, perky and eager.

I hadn’t realised the mayor had done his speech. That fucker’s a real snooze fest sometimes. I hit my friends to shut them up, bringing my attention back to the front. It’s finally time. The escort amps up the crowd as the reveals the female tribute.

I vaguely recognize the name, though I can’t put a face to it. Girl must not be from my academy then. Doesn’t mean she ain’t a career, I can hear the excited whispers of the kids around me. A tiny slip of a girl comes out of the fourteen years old section; head shaved and stare blank as she goes up the podium. I raise my eyebrows. How’s she gonna kill anyone in the arena? I know size ain’t everything, but she’s freaking short and skinny, damn.

What if… If she’s a tribute then… I mean, I dunno what the criteria are, maybe I won’t be picked, maybe… What the fuck do I do if I’m not? If I can’t get to the arena, can’t win, can’t see Ash and mom again…

I don’t even listen to the escort anymore, lost in my dark thoughts. This was supposed to be my year. I was gonna volunteer and come out of the Games alive, no doubt. And as victor, I could ask for my family back, to my side. No matter how fucked up we are, at least we’d be a mess together. I clench my fists with deep breaths. Nothing’s lost, we don’t know yet. Just ‘cause a little snotty brat got picked don’t mean I won’t be. Can’t lose hope ‘til I’m sure…

“…Slate Allardyce!”

I raise my head with surprise. Tykes hits me in the back, shaking me. He’s smiling. All around me, they’re all smiling, wide and happy. “I can’t believe a dumb fuck like you made it!” Elias whispers at my left. I laugh, loud and free. My name? It was my name? I’mma be a tribute? I push my friends aside good-heartedly and head to the front with a ferocious smile.

I fuckin’ made it.


	4. District Three Reaping

**FIGHT OF THE ELITES**

**.**

**.**

_DISTRICT THREE REAPING_

**.**

**.**

**Neon Witold, 17 years old, District 3**

Ugh.

I stay motionless a solid minute, trying to figure out where I am. I swallow painfully, my mouth pasty and tasting faintly of vomit. I can _feel_ a migraine coming, temples pulsing and eyelids too heavy and hot. I moan, frowning. Great. I know what cocktails to avoid next time… or not. I have no memories whatsoever of the past evening.

Thankfully, this is nothing new, and no wave of panic overwhelms me at the thought.

I drag my hands over the fabric covering me and can recognize my own, silk soft sheets. I must be the only one with such expensive beddings in the whole District. At least I’m home. I remember the time I woke up in a stranger’s closet wearing a trash bag like a dress.

The good ol’ times! Never mind that this was only a month ago.

I slowly open one eye, then the other when I remember that pre-drunk-me was smart enough to close the blinds before leaving. _All_ the blinds. One never knows where one might pass out upon reaching one’s house.

I inspect the ceiling with a faint interest, noticing a slight blemish on the right corner and making a mental note to notify the parents. Pulses of pain have started afflicting my head mercilessly and I moan once more, taking deep breath. As though that would change anything.

“Finally awake?” a masculine voice says from my left.

I wince, the noise being too _noisy_ for my eardrums. I turn my head cautiously. Nayki is looking at me, cheek resting on his palm, eyes fond and amused.

“Were you just watching me _sleep_? Like a creep?” I croak out, voice scratchy and too deep.

“Maybe?” he answers, shrugging. “You were mumbling insults; it was very cute.” He ends the comment with a warm smile, simultaneously making my headache tenfold and my neck burn in embarrassment. Fuck, this is just… _great_. He’s watching me sleep now? I must have makeup smudge all over my face, dishevelled hair in the not-sexy way and I think I can even feel one of my fake eyelashes stuck just below my eye, and he finds that _cute_?

Great.

Great-great-great.

Here I was, hoping he’d be different from the others. That he understood, because I made it clear at the start, damn it, that this thing between us _wasn’t serious_. But, I suppose, it _has_ been five weeks and I didn’t think I had to reiterate my intentions. He must have built up some expectations, since I let it last a little longer than I usually do. I unwillingly gave him hope.

This day is going to be _wonderful_ , I can just tell.

I groan, hands on my head, before taking a deep breath before swinging myself to the side and attempting to get up. I fail miserably and end up sprawled on the floor. I’m tempted to just crawl to the shower, dignity be damned, but the snickers I can hear behind me summon up the last of my strength and I finally manage to reach my destination. I can still hear Nayki laughing in the other room and grit my teeth. This horrible, _horrible_ human being who dared to find me cute on this horrible, _horrible_ morning. Feeling petty, I hold up my middle finger to the closed door, knowing he can’t see it but nonetheless feeling satisfied. I would yell, but my throat is too painful.

I take an overly long shower, hoping he’ll be gone by the time I’m done. But no. He’s patiently waiting for me when I come out, like a dog waiting for its master with a wagging tail. I’ve never liked dogs. I’m sorry, ok, but they’re too clingy.

He says sometime, but I’m not listening and I don’t care. I dress up quickly and efficiently, with a simple dark blue dress and black boots. I try taming my hair even though I know it’s a lost battle and finally throw the comb to the floor with a snarl. Asshole hair and asshole morning and asshole Nayki.

Once I feel minimally presentable, I grab Nayki’s hand and drag him to the entrance of the house. I open it wide and get ready to push him through if I have to, but he goes willingly.

“Want me to come get you later? For the reapings?” he asks gently, looking at me through his eyelashes like the charmer he is. That’s a girl’s move anyway, it’s not gonna work on me damn it.

Wait, the reapings?

Oh, now that’s just _great_. I had completely forgotten.

“No thanks,” I answer, moving on before he derails me one more time on my mission to get rid of him. “Since I have no intention of seeing you again except in passing, that won’t be necessary.”

“W-what?”

“You heard me. You got clingy. I _told you_ I didn’t want anything serious. I’d rather we cut this short before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?!”

“For you to get too attached to me and make a whole scene when we inevitably break up, paired up with a suicide letter and you begging me to take you back. So thanks for these few good weeks, it was cool, and we’ll see each when we’ll see each other! Have a wonderful reaping day!”

I close the door on his retort and smile to myself. That’s one thing done.

Craving coffee and knowing it’s about the only thing that could possibly cheer me up and alleviate my headache, I flee to the kitchen. I notice the message on the answering machine and click to listen to it as I get a cup and start the process of grinding the coffee beans.

“Hello, darling, it’s your mother!” the phone crackles loudly, the reception still as bad as it always is. “You must be at a friend’s house. I’m so happy to know you have a healthy social life. At least your father and me don’t have to worry about you. Listen, I was simply calling to wish you good luck for tomorrow.”

A masculine voice sounding like my dad’s calls for her and she answers distractedly that she’s coming soon. “I’ll be quick, sweetie. We’re very close to something extraordinary, oh, Neon, you have no idea! But where was I? Ha, yes. I hope you’re not too stressed. I don’t think you need to be worried, honey. I know you’re getting good grades at school, you’re our daughter after all, but that’s certainly not what would save you in the arena, now is it?” She laughs, a little amused snort that Neon can barely remember seeing in person at this point. “Your father and me will call you tomorrow night, when this whole Quarter Quell thing is over with. I love you, honey. Take care of yourself, will you?”

The answering machine beeps and the calls ends on one last screech of bad reception. I delete the message and turn back to making my coffee. As usual, they’re absent for reaping day. What a surprise. Just two more reapings, and it will be over. I’ll be nineteen and free.

**.**

**.**

“At least, the twelve years old shouldn’t be worried this year, right? I don’t really see what quality or strengths they could possibly have for the Games…”

“Isn’t there a twelve year old boy who won like ten years ago?”

“Ok, but that was, like, dumb luck. Everyone knows you’re done for if you’re reaped at twelve.”

“Either way, I know _I_ don’t have to worry. There’s literally nothing I’m good at! I tripped on my own feet on the way here!”

I laugh with the other girls but stay silent. I’m usually the first one to give an opinion, but this time around, I’m not sure what to think. The thing is, anyone could be picked. Some people have innate talents they know nothing about, and since we don’t know the criteria we were tested for, who can say. It could even be me.

“Neon, I was wondering…” One of the girls turns to me, bringing me back to the conversation. “Since your parents practically live in the Capitol, don’t they know more about the Quarter Quell?”

I can’t help the notice the note of jealousy in the girl’s voice but simply shrug. “They’re only there for their research, it doesn’t have anything to do with the Games. Plus they come from the districts. No one from the Capitol would trust them, pretty sure it’s super top secret and classified.”

They all nod and promptly get back to their wild theories and suppositions. A few minutes go by. The atmosphere is as tense as it is excited. We’re curious of knowing who these famous elite tributes, as the tabloids are already calling them, are, yet all are scared of getting reaped. We don’t have careers here, after all. I heard a few victors tried to band together at some point and build training academies, but said buildings ended up ‘accidentally’ burning down not long after. Easy to know which districts are the Capitol’s favorites. I’m looking at you, District Two.

Luckily, even without that many victors from the Hunger Games, we live pretty well. Since the smartest brains come from our district, the Capitol, often recruits people like my parents to do their research in the city itself. And those types of jobs are well-remunerated. Higher studies are heavily encouraged, since the Capitol is always looking to recruit more talents to serve them. And for kids to be able to afford going to school for many years, they must have the means to not need to work. There are many financial programs to help out families with promising pupils. As long as these kids keep up high grades and satisfactory results, they are set for life.

Of course, we still have a few poorer neighborhoods, but those are far and few between. Some say we’re doing even better than District One these days. Isn’t that crazy?

“Your attention, please, we will be starting soon,” the escort, Minerva Speck, says coolly. “Eyes on the screen, thank you.”

The forty or so year old woman returns to the back, checking her hair, a high and complex spiral precariously holding itself together on top for her head, with a small mirror. She’s been our escort for a good decade already. What I like about her is that she goes straight to the point. No theatricals, no fooling around and bad puns. When it’s time for the reaping, she goes for it and gets it over quick, like ripping a band-aid off. It’s refreshing. When I watch the reapings in the other districts, it always seems ten-times worse as they drag out the suspense.

I don’t pay much attention to the usual propaganda-filled ‘we’re the good guys and we saved you’ recording from the Capitol. I know it by heart, damn my too good memory. Finally, Minerva goes back to the front. It’s starting.

I nervously grab my neighbor’s hand, noticing I’m not the only one looking for some comfort. She squeezes my hand back and we exchange a nervous smile. I see her looking back at the families assembled to the back and push down a sad frown as I think of my own parents, miles and miles away.

“Girls first,” Minerva smiles, opening the envelope with neat gestures. “This year’s female tribute is Neon Witold!”

No.

No, no, no.

_No_.

I shake my head, repeating the word over and over. The girl next to me drops my hand as though it’s on fire. I didn’t hear right. It’s not me. It’s, it’s someone else. Someone with the same name… Isn’t there multiple Neon Witold in the district? That’s got to be it. It’s not me, it’s the other Neon!

I take a step back, another. A wall of teenagers stops my retreat. Tears roll down my cheeks and blur my view. I sniff, still shaking my head and rub my eyes roughly. “It’s not me, it’s not… Why… why are you all looking at me like that? _It’s not me_ , I told you! It’s not, it’s just… it’s not…” I don’t even know what I’m saying, sobs wracking my body and breaking my voice, hands trembling, feet clumsy. I try to push the girls around me, try to burrow myself in the crowd, but it’s useless.

White uniforms gleam in the shining sun and gloved hands clamp down on my arm, gentle yet firm. They drag me forward and I follow like a broken doll, numb. I hear wailing, and it takes me an infinity to realize the sounds come from me. I don’t stop.

I’m left next to Minerva, just like that. I don’t even know how I’m still standing. She looks at me, pity shining in her pink pupils. Another sob wracks through me, violent and desperate. I get a glimpse of myself on the big screen projecting the whole ceremony.

My makeup is ruined. _I’m_ ruined.

**.**

**.**

“You got a call,” a Peacekeeper says, holding the door open.

“W-what?”

“Call. For you,” he repeats, impatient.

I jump to my feet and run to him, taking the device offered with trembling hands. I take a deep breath, hurriedly wiping my face of snot and tears with the sleeve of my dress, and push the call button, revealing my parents’ stressed frowns. Dad is openly crying, silent tears running over his cheeks, and even though mom is putting on a brave front, but I can see the worry lines etched all over her features.

“Mom, dad!” And even though I wanted to be brave, for them, I start crying again. My mom smiles, weary and small, but still.

“Oh honey… How I wish I could be with you right now. We should have… I told you we should go back for reaping day this year!” she says, turning to dad but with no real anger in her voice, only sadness.

“I k-know, I know,” he cries, nodding his head multiple times, seemingly unable to look at me. “H-how… how are you feeling, love? I c-can’t believe… we were so sure you were s-safe this year!”

“I know, dad, me too. I… I really thought… and I reacted so badly too! I’m done, now. No one will want to ally with me, and forget sponsors!”

I drop to the ground with a whimper, still holding the device up but barely.

“Neon, honey, you have to be brave now!” Mom whispers almost in despair. “Don’t give up, you hear me?”

“But… there’s no way I could win! I can’t do… I just don’t… understand why I was chosen! I don’t have any particular talent, it’s not like having a good memory is gonna save me in a knife fight…”

“Oh, baby… We believe in you, your mother and I. And we love you more than anything. You know that, right?”

“And we are _so proud_ of you, no matter what happens,” mom adds. “I love you, honey. Be brave.”

The transmission abruptly cuts, the three minutes over. I sniff, failing to contain another sob. I’m going to die.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Rhymer Greenlaw, 18 years old, District 3**

“Alright guys, we’re closing up! Time to scram.” I open the blinds, snickering at the painful groans of the patrons scattered in the room as the sunlight reaches them.

“Just a little longer, Rhy! It’s a special day, remember?” Gordon begs; the one client who’d never leave this establishment if it was up to him.

“Yeah, exactly,” I retort exasperatedly, helping him to his feet. “You know I’m eligible, right? I gotta get ready for it.”

“Ha! C’mon, as if you’d be reaped. Unless one of the required skills is being able to make killer drinks!”

The other patrons guffaw at the bad joke, throwing their own two cents about my mediocrity. I stick out my tongue at them. For once, I’m happy to be so ordinary. It’s a strange sensation.

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of the poor kid who has to work day and night to support his family. Forced to quit school, only a few pennies to his name…” I hold up my arms theatrically and throw my cleaning rag on Gordon’s head who pushes it away with a deep-belly laugh.

“Kid, that’s already more what than I have. You emptied my pocket tonight, you damn brat!” Another man yells out from the back corner.

“Hey, blame the owner, not the messenger. I ain’t the one choosing the prices. Now, kindly fuck off, I still gotta clean up behind you slobs.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

After a few more minutes of good-hearted grumbles, the same every morning, they leave, stumbling all over the streets and chanting loudly. I smile, just a little fond. After a year serving them nearly every night, it’s hard not to get attached to those assholes. I wouldn’t want to be their family, though. I know how hard to it is to have an alcoholic parent or husband. Not that I got to know my own father much, mind you.

I shake my head. No time to thing about this. I start cleaning up, almost on autopilot, wiping the counters, tables, chairs. Mopping the floor and taking care of the vomit hidden on the side of the counter. Charming.

“Rhymer, you still here?” Boss asks, head appearing over the stair’s railing.

“Yeah, I’m almost done,” I say, wiping the sweat off my forehead.

“You can go now, I’ll take care of the rest. You should be with your family this morning. Who knows what could happen,” he says gently, coming down the steps. “You worked hard enough this past year to deserve this.”

“I’m paid for this, it’s not like I do it for free,” I remind him with a grin. “And I like doing this, it’s a good distraction. Keeps me busy.”

“Good home, son. Your mother must be worried sick, we both know how she is,” he insists.

“Alright, alright, I got it. You should have just told me you’re having someone over!”

“Real funny. You know what? I hope you get reaped. I’d finally get some peace.”

Hand on my heart, I gasp. He winks and we end up smiling at each other, silent and comfortable. I know I’m lucky Boss took me on. Otherwise, I would have ended up in the factories, and I’ve seen first hand how it destroys people. Mom included. If only I made enough so she could stop working… One day, I will. And at least, Lilac’s father helps out as much as he can. If only life in this district wasn’t so expensive.

“Are you not worried, kid?”

“Not really. I mean, I guess a little, but… I don’t know, I have a hard time imagining I could be picked. In the careers’ districts, it seems pretty obvious who it’ll be. But here… You know, I realize, I have no clue what the other kids my age can do. Who’s good at sport, or smart, or… I guess, since I’m in the older groups, there’s more chances for me to be chosen, but…”

Boss nods, understanding. He walks over to me and pats my back twice. “Alright, beat it. We’ll see each other tonight.”

I smile, nodding, and hang the rag behind the counter before slipping away. Various vendors are starting to open their stores and they hail and wave at me cheerfully. I’ve worked for most of them at some point in the past few years, doing odd jobs and contracts. There’s not much I haven’t tried. But none of them could afford to hire someone full time, sadly.

Once more, I remind myself how lucky I am to have been hired by my boss. Sure, as a victor of the Games, he doesn’t lack in financial means, and that helps. His wish was to have his own bar in the neighborhood he grew up in. I think he’s the only one not living in the victors’ Village. Something about liking the sounds of the city and feeling more at home here. I think I can understand, even though I wouldn’t say no to a little more luxury if I was him.

Once I reach home, Lilac is still sleeping and mom, like Boss guessed, is standing in the kitchen, lost in her thoughts and stressing herself out. As soon as she spots me, she gives me a shaky smile. I walk to her and give her a resounding kiss on her forehead, making her laugh weakly. Rubbing her arms, I guide her to a chair and sit her down.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask her, rummaging around to make breakfast.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Not very well, I suppose.”

“Worried, uh?” I hum, encouraging her to tell me about it.

“Well, of course. Both of my kids are eligible for these terrible Games. I can’t wait for you to be finally over eighteen, Rhy, you have no idea. What a horrible mother I am, wishing for you to not have a childhood. But I can’t help it, I’d rather you grew up too quickly then have to worry so much every year like this…” she mumbles, biting her lips raw.

“I doubt you’re the only one thinking this way, mom. But you shouldn’t worry about us this year. Lilac’s a useless brat and I’m barman with no diploma. I think we’ll be fine.”

She laughs, quiet but sounding slightly more cheery, and I smile, satisfied.

“I heard that!” Lilac whines, bounding in the room, hair all over the place and her father’s large sweater worn inside-out.

“I knew it! You were faking so you wouldn’t have to make breakfast again, weren’t you!” I turn towards her, wiggling my fingers menacingly.

“You can’t prove anything!” she yells, trying to escape my tickles with high-pitched giggles.

Three short knocks at the front door interrupt us and Lilac’s father comes in before being invited. “It’s loud in here, should I be worried?” he smiles, amused.

“Daddy!” Lilac jumps in his arms and he receives her with a grunt.

“Hi there, princess. I wanted to accompany you to the reaping, what d’you say?” She nods with a happy smile. The two adults exchange a warm look as they all take a seat around the dinner table, watching me prepare breakfast. Even though they’re not together anymore, they are still in good terms, thankfully. Mom certainly got luckier with him than she did with my dad. Whom I won’t think of again today. He doesn’t deserve my thoughts.

I drop the cutlery on the wooden table, almost done with the simple meal. “Ready to eat?”

**.**

**.**

“Aren’t you tired, Rhy?” mom worries, holding on to my arm as we try to make our way through the crowd.

“A little, sure. But it’s fine, I’ll sleep once it’s over,” I say with a shrug.

“I should have made breakfast, let you catch up on some sleep,” she sighs.

“Don’t worry, mom. I’m young, I’ll live.”

We finally reach the waiting lines. She smiles and kisses my cheek softly, then she hugs Lilac who squirms, trying to escape the embrace. “We’ll see each other real soon,” I remind her in a low voice as she twists her hands worriedly.

“I know, I know. I’m just being paranoid. See you later, honey.”

She and Lilac’s father leave us after one last goodbye, and I grab my sister’s hand so we can get in line to register. Yawns escape me and I sigh, blinking and shaking my head to stay awake. Usually, I’d be deep in slumber at this hour, head under my pillow and snoring away.

It’s finally our turn. Lilac bravely gives her finger for the blood sample and she doesn’t even flinch at the prick. Last year as well, she was brave, not showing one ounce of fear. But I think she’s much more relaxed this year, nonetheless. Everyone keeps saying there won’t be any twelve or thirteen years old for the Quarter Quell. How could any of them be considered the best of their district?

“You know what? I’m really glad you’re so useless at life. That way, I can keep you as my slave at home,” she grins, cheeky, and runs away before I can react. “See you later, bro!” she yells, already disappearing in her section. I laugh, shaking my head. Kids these days. They just don’t know how to respect their elders.

I reach my friends in the eighteen’s section. Compared to the younger kids, everyone is noticeably more tense. Kind of like with the tesserae, we know the chances of being picked are probably higher the older we are. More physical strength, more knowledge, more experience…

I really hope I’m as useless as Lilac says I am. This way, I’ll be safe from the Hunger Games for the rest of my life. It will have been seven long years…

I yawn again. Lulled by the whispered conversations surrounding me, I feel my eyes closing by themselves. I haven’t slept in nearly twenty hours and it’s hard to ignore. I lean against the high rope delimiting the section and decide to allow myself a few minutes of well-deserved rest. Just a few minutes, just…

“Rhy! Rhymer!” a voice whispers harshly as I’m shaken awake. “ _Rhy_!” I open my eyes, disorientated. My friend is looking at me, horrified, and he points to the platform almost hysterically. “It’s you,” he hisses, “you were reaped!”

“W-what?”

“It’s your name, the escort said your name!”

“Rhymer Greenlaw, please come up,” says a feminine voice through the speakers.

A shudder wracks through me and I look all around me, lost and confused. Only fear and pity are reflected back at me. I think I hear someone crying from afar. I can see Peacekeepers pushing kids aside and coming towards me.

It’s… me?

“You have to go, _now_!” my friend says, pushing me forward.

I take one step forward, then another. My eardrums are ringing, my vision is blurry. I reach the Peacekeepers on autopilot, give them my ID. I get a glimpse of Lilac being held by her friends as she tries to get to me. I turn my eyes, not wanting to see the despair etched in her features.

Not now, I can’t… If I see it, I’ll break, and I can’t… Not yet.

My district partner is already on the podium, clothes in disarray, dishevelled, mascara tracing black lines over her cheeks and eyes wide with terror. How did I… How could I sleep through _everything_? And how… how could I be reaped?

“A round of applause for our male tribute, Rhymer Greenlaw!” says the escort as she gently turns me towards the crowd. “And now, if our two courageous tribute could shake hands…”

I face the girl slowly. She fixes eyes filled with tears on me and raises a shaking hand. I grab it gently, taking a deep breath, and shake once before letting go. She feels cold, almost frozen, and I imagine I must be the same.

At least, I’m not the only one who’s scared.

**.**

**.**

“Don’t die, Rhy,” Lilac demands, snot under her nose but expression fierce. “You’re not allowed to die!”

I kneel in front of her and wipe her tears, willing my hands to stop trembling. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to stay alive. I can’t promise more than that. You know I don’t lie.”

She sniffs loudly, lips shaking as if she’s fighting her tears with all her might, and pushes her little finger towards me. I grab it with mine, sealing the promise, then hold her in my arms tightly. Mom joins us, latched at my back. We stay huddled on the floor for a good minute, the silence heavy but necessary. This might be the last time they ever see me.

“Rhy,” mom whispers close to my ear, “you’re not useless, and you’re not weak, and this the proof. I believe in you, you weren’t chosen for no reason. You’re smart, talented, resourceful, strong… You can do this. You can survive. Come back to us, son.”

Tears spring to my eyes and I nod weakly. I have to survive, I have to… I can’t give up, not yet. Not ever.


End file.
